


Spontaneous

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Food Sex, Lestrade doesn't let him, M/M, Mycroft self-sabotages relationships, mystrade, raspberries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little Mystrade involving self-sabotaging Mycroft, who doesn't expect much from life, and custard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spontaneous

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through my Sherlock files, seeing what story notes were hanging around that should either be written or abandoned and discovered I'd made notes for a Mystrade fic. I don't normally write Mystrade. In fact, I don't know if I've ever written it. Maybe it was a response to a prompt, though if that's the case, I didn't note the prompt (which is unusual).
> 
> It also looks like this is the month for fics where the Holmes boys learn about raspberries and bellies!

The black car brings DI Greg Lestrade to Mycroft Holmes’s offices at odd times. After work; in the middle of the night; sometimes in the morning or at lunchtime. They keep the schedule unscheduled, which is as much to do with the erratic demands of their work as to keeping off the radar. Discretion matters.

Everything is set up at Mycroft’s offices. He refers to them drily as his home from home, because his home is much more sterile. He’s almost never at the house anyway. Here at the Office, he has private quarters, a simple set of rooms. Bedroom. Living room. Large kitchen. Not that he has much opportunity to eat or sleep, or sometimes really to live, but they are better than the cold house which is larger but less relevant to his everyday life.

In any case, it’s here that Lestrade comes to him. His visits could be passed off as official business. Well, if you squint. Mycroft trusts his people, but that’s partly because he doesn’t tell them everything.

They, naturally, squint, and call it official business, this thing the boss has with the copper. The accept it’s all to do with the boss’s troublemaking brother; or to do with national security. To do with… whatever the hell they want, really. Mycroft has picked his people carefully, and his aide keeps a closer eye than that. Nobody cares, or wouldn’t, if it weren’t for the fact that the boss is often in a better mood (or at least not a foul mood) for hours after one of the DI’s officially unofficial visits. So they squint and indulge and keep their secrets.

At the start of it all, Lestrade teases Mycroft, calls him Mr Buttoned-Down, but he means it affectionately. Mycroft is always so controlled. Even with the sex. There is always a layer of control.

At the start of it all, Mycroft never laughs, except for that dry, rather meticulous laugh.

Mycroft thinks that since all loves end, and that all hearts are broken, he must not reveal too much of himself. It’s as though he’s starting to say goodbye even though they are just getting started, because he thinks the loss is inevitable.

It makes him sad in advance, because Gregory Lestrade is extraordinary. All these years as a policeman, all he’s seen, and he is still an optimist. He still cares. With that beautiful, angelic face, that smile, those eyes. The kindest Mycroft has ever seen. He fell in love with those eyes, and one day those eyes will not smile at him. One day those eyes will look at him with disappointment or disdain or loathing. It’s what they do; what everyone does. 

Mycroft even confesses this to Greg one day, in a moment of careless melancholy. Greg is obviously irritated. That makes Mycroft sad. Their days are numbered now, and he has precipitated the ending. He’s smart enough to realise that his subconscious did that to him, made him start letting go before he got too embedded, too used to having the DI around. Mycroft wishes he could have just enjoyed the love while he had it. He wishes that his brain was not so practical, preparing for love’s absence in advance.

It’s just how he’s made. He’s resigned to that, now. After Daddy, after Mummy, after Raymond at university, after Sherlock. Love does not last. Not for him.

But it lingers, it seems. Ten days after that self-sabotaging admission and Lestrade still gets in the black car when it comes for him. Only twice has he declined, when he’s been busy, proving he’s his own man still – but only when he was genuinely busy. Mostly, he gets in the car.

Mycroft doesn’t understand why his angel hasn’t gone yet, but he’s grateful, in his melancholy way, that love isn’t yet denied him.

But tonight, Greg is looking at him speculatively. He’s in bed, with the sheets pulled to his waist, his arms crossed behind his head, and Mycroft has already cleaned himself and is reaching for his suit. He will pull his armour back on and leave Greg to sleep or eat or go as he chooses, and Mycroft already wishes he had stayed in bed, although he never does. How much longer will he have, after all?

Mycroft is still naked, however, perched on the edge of the bed, crisp white shirt in one hand, about to put it on, when Greg leans over and kisses him between the shoulder blades.

Greg has never indulged in post-coital affection before. He speaks affectionately of course, but he usually gives Mycroft time to reassemble his suit (his shield) first.

But tonight he kisses between Mycroft’s shoulder blades, and lays his cheek on pale, freckled skin.

Mycroft freezes, a hyper-urbane rabbit in the spotlight, not knowing what to do. What’s expected? Greg slides his arms around Mycroft’s chest in… it’s too gentle to be properly called a hug. A… cuddle, then?

“Don’t go, Mycroft. We have time. Governments aren’t falling just yet, are they?”

“Not just yet.” Mycroft smiles, a crooked smile, a little warmth heating its corners, so it’s not just the bland, polite smile he offers to everyone else. For his battered angel, this smile is small but it’s real.

Greg scoots up behind him, arms wrapped around his chest, and just holds him, cradles him. It’s not even a sexual hold, a possessive hold. Greg just seems to like the feeling of Mycroft in his arms. Mycroft considers this, how unlikely this is, how improbable. Whatever this relationship offers the beautiful Lestrade (and he thinks it was curiosity at first, and perhaps being drawn to power, and perhaps a little affection, now, really, which would be lovely) it’s so, so nice.

What does the relationship offer Mycroft? Mycroft examines it, from a distance, as though it’s a problem to be solved.

This _relationship_ – surely the wrong word for something destined soon to die – soothes the loneliness and it is so lovely to be held. The sex is good, is a relief, and he pretends the kindness of the Angel Lestrade is something he deserves. Sometimes it might even be true. But really, this beautiful man holding him is a little miracle that will never last. His time is almost up.

Mycroft worries that if this does not end soon, he will be the one to corrupt Greg’s immunity from cynicism. He’ll be the one to soil that perfection, and he would protect his Lestrade from that, if he could.

“I am not good for you, you know,” says Mycroft.

“I’d have to disagree with you there,” says Greg mildly, pressing another kiss to the ridges of his lover’s spine.

“I have a dark view of the world,” Mycroft attempts to explain without being cruel, “I move in dark places.”

“The places I walk aren’t exactly Paris in the springtime.”

“I refer to…”

“I know what you refer to. Politics is murky. International politics an even dirtier game. I don’t know if you give me more credit than I deserve, or just think I’m naïve.”

“Nothing could be further from my mind.” Mycroft is feeling disconcerted.

Greg nuzzles the back of Mycroft’s neck. “Who says you’re a bad influence on me? Maybe I’m a good influence on you. Did you ever think of that? Maybe I make you less cynical.”

Mycroft wants to protest Greg’s conclusions, but Greg’s hands are stroking his bare chest, his bare stomach. Greg seems not to mind (or ever to have minded) that Mycroft, with his desk job, is not in striking condition, isn’t much to look at really. Mycroft has a first class brain but he has no illusions about his body.

Greg’s roaming hands are joined by a roving mouth, kissing, tasting, savouring, inviting Mycroft to _stay, please stay_. Greg eases Mycroft onto his back, and Mycroft lets him, because there’s time, and it’s so lovely that Greg wants him, for however long this will last, and he closes his eyes to feel it all …

And Greg blows a raspberry on his belly.

Mycroft twitches, sits bolt upright, opens his shocked eyes. No lover has ever _dared_ …

Mycroft glares. Greg twinkles back at him, his angel grin delightfully wicked, and Mycroft doesn’t know what to think. While puzzling over the unexpected issue, Greg leans over him again, kisses and nips the pale skin, and, _good heavens_ , blows _another raspberry_. A third, and he is running his fingers light as a feather down Mycroft’s waist and it… _tickles_.

Mycroft giggles, then snaps his mouth shut on the sound.

Greg presses his advantage. He tickles more, and presses kisses to Mycroft’s jaw, then another raspberry, and Mycroft giggles again, and laughs. And Greg smiles, the most wonderful smile, and says: “That’s better.”

Mycroft does not like his own smile. He doesn’t like the way he looks when he laughs. His father told him he looked ridiculous, and he does, and people will not respect him if they see that his face splits like that, and his nose wrinkles, and he giggles like a child.

But Greg simply looks delighted and kisses the corners of his mouth, and tickles him again.

In the next sudden moment, they are mock wrestling, Mycroft attempting to tickle Greg in turn, and Greg is wriggling across the bed, snickering. He moves swiftly to capture Mycroft with his legs and pins him to the bed.

He is grinning at Mycroft like he has unlocked a secret, and is delighted with himself.

Mycroft feels like he has surrendered something vital of himself but the wonder of it is, he feels… released. Free. The sensation makes him giddy. It makes him giggle some more. He swallows the ridiculous sound, but there is his Angel, fingers dancing over ribs and thighs, mouth kissing then pursing and blowing and the most undignified but joyful noise bubbles out of Mycroft’s mouth.

Greg Lestrade is sitting across Mycroft’s legs, hands on Mycroft’s hips, then his thighs, then running up over his soft, poochy belly, his untoned chest, and he just grins his angelic devil grin.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he says, and to Mycroft’s dismay, Greg gets out of bed, abandoning Mycroft and his burgeoning erection. “Come on, gorgeous,” he says.

Greg wraps the sheet around his own hips and takes Mycroft by the hand, pulls him to his feet. While Mycroft looks stunned and a little disgruntled, Greg tugs a dressing gown over Mycroft’s shoulders. Retaking his hand, Greg leads him to the kitchen.

“Sit,” says Greg, and, puzzled beyond his capacity to refuse, Mycroft sits on a stool, just as he is told.

The kitchen light is off, so when Greg opens the fridge to inspect the contents, he is bathed in strange light. Mycroft thinks he looks more like an angel than ever. Greg returns laden with a jug of home-made custard, a quarter consumed by Mycroft. Mycroft feels cross at himself for the indulgence, but when Greg isn’t here he needs _something_ that provides a little reward.

Greg doesn’t get out bowls to serve the custard. He gets a spoon and eats some straight from the jug, then offers a spoonful to Mycroft, just like some ill-mannered boor. Mycroft refuses the offering to begin with, but that wicked angel grin is back.

“Come on, just a bite. I can make it worth your while.”

Curious as to how Greg can make it worth his while, Mycroft opens his mouth and lets Greg dip the tip of the spoon between his lips. He closes his mouth on the silverware and Greg slides the spoon out again. There is custard on Mycroft’s tongue, and a little on his lower lip, and Mycroft intends to dab that away, with the back of his hand if he must, but he’s mesmerised by Greg. By the way Greg licks the spoon, slowly, the very tip of his tongue flicking into the bowl of silver, over the tip and then his mouth is bridging the gap between the utensil and Mycroft’s mouth.

Greg sucks at Mycroft’s lower lip, very gently, before leaning back again, looking once more very pleased with himself.

“I have an even better idea,” says Greg.

Mycroft’s body is almost vibrating with urgency to discover what that better idea is.

Greg dips his finger into the jug, then stripes Mycroft’s chest, across his nipple, with custard. He lowers his head to suck the skin clean, then stops to kiss Mycroft’s mouth softly. His lips are sweet.

“You try,” he says. Mycroft seems stunned, so Greg takes his hand, guides Mycroft’s index finger into the jug and then holds his arms wide, allowing Mycroft the choice of where on that canvas to make his mark. The sheet slips a little but Greg ignores it. Let gravity do its worst, he thinks.

Mycroft reaches out, almost reverently, to paint a stripe of custard from Greg’s sternum to his navel. Then he lowers his head, suckles against the top of that stripe, moves down slowly, until he reaches the small dip, that belly button into which custard has pooled. His licks into the hollow, delighting in how it makes Greg’s skin shiver…

And then he purses his lips and blows.

Instead of pulling away, Greg arches into the sensation, laughing. Mycroft nips at the skin, grabs Greg by the waist and pulls him closer, blowing another raspberry. Greg’s full throated laugh morphs into a startled shout and Mycroft starts to giggle. He presses his face into that wonderful stomach, smothering his ridiculous laugh, but Greg dances away to let the sound escape again. Greg’s hands dart down to tickle Mycroft’s ribs, and the giggle bursts out of him again…

And this time, he lets it go. He laughs, and he stops caring what it looks like or sounds like when it happens, because this is his streetwise angel, who is utterly delighted by it.

After a while, laughter subsides. Greg’s hand guides Mycroft’s jaw up and he leans down for a kiss.

“I know you tried,” he says, between kisses, “But you can’t make me go away. I don’t want to go away. You are remarkable, and I want you, and I love you, and I’m staying.” He pauses in his ministrations to rub his thumb against the moisture gathered at the corner of Mycroft’s eye.

“Your trouble,” says Greg, kissing the lines there, “Is that you’ve forgotten how to laugh.”

“I never did know how,” Mycroft confesses.

“Well, we’ll take care of that,” Greg promises, “Let’s go back to bed.”

They do. And there is tenderness, a lot of laughter, and then two bodies sliding together, voices whispering then moaning then crying out, then a bit more laughter, breathless and content.

Mycroft Holmes can’t ever let the control go, outside. Too much is at stake.

But here, in these rooms, with his angel, Mycroft learns to take down the wall. He learns to be playful, and he never knew he could be that. He never knew he could laugh, and scrunch his face up the way he does, or that someone could love that ridiculous expression and try to make it happen.

He must schedule his spontaneity, but within these walls, he finds delight. And food fights. And ridiculous sex to go with the sex full of affection and passion.

And Mycroft’s staff? They make sure the copper is always treated with respect, that he has whatever he needs and that any of his special requests for the kitchen are always, always kept in stock.


End file.
